I had fallen for him on the first day of class. He was witty, kind, mischievous, open, and incredibly intelligent. It was an AP Physics class, and he said his intention was not just to teach us physics, but to make us scientifically literate citizens of the world. He wanted to teach us how to think critically, evaluate, and not just take information at face value. I was impressed by his dedication to our growth as people. His passion for teaching went beyond the requirements of the curriculum.
He was also beautiful. He wasn't tall, at 5'7", but he was wiry—strong and fit for his 37 years. He taught tai chi in a club after school, and worked as an instructor outside of the school. He had a handsome face, with a full head of light brown hair. As we got to know each other better, I learned that he had a strict exercise regimen, giving him impressive muscles that were clear beneath his conservative professional clothing. His discipline and vigor were very attractive to me.
I was a slender senior in high school, with long auburn hair and hazel eyes. I wasn't inexperienced sexually, but I had never lost my virginity. I needed someone I could trust, someone who respected me as much as I respected them. I couldn't stop thinking about Mr. Jetson. He was going through a divorce with the mother of his young child. He didn't like talking about it, but I knew they were having disagreements about how to raise their son. I got the impression that she wanted to place more demands and expectations on him than Mr. Jetson wanted to. He wanted his child to focus on learning in a way that made him happy, instead of making learning a chore. He seemed sad about the divorce, but he also knew it was the right thing to do. They just weren't compatible as partners.
He and I were very compatible. We would discuss scientific discoveries, poetry, philosophy, exercise, travel, and everything that interested us. I couldn't tell if he found me attractive. Many boys did, and I would sometimes notice his gaze lingering, but he was very subtle. I knew he would never overstep his bounds and risk making me uncomfortable. I spent every lunch with him in his classroom, just talking. I was struggling with depression, and he would sit with me and keep me company when I was sad. Once, he hugged me while I cried. I felt very close to him. My feelings for him ran deep.
At night, I would touch myself and think about him. Once, I attended one of his tai chi classes, and he led me through the movements. Moving in rhythm with him aroused something deep inside me. That night, I tried to pleasure myself with fervor, but I didn't succeed. I could never bring myself to orgasm, and no boy had ever been able to either. I wondered if I needed someone more experienced, or maybe I just needed to have sex. I couldn't stop fantasizing about him.
In class, he mentioned that his wife had gone back home to another country for a few months. I wondered if he needed someone to help watch his kid, and I offered to babysit for his son so he could spend some time with his friends. His face lit up when I offered, and he told me that he was grateful that I was so thoughtful. He gave me his phone number. I debated calling him to tell him my feelings, but thought better of it. I didn't want to scare him away.
One afternoon he called me and asked if I could come over. When he opened the door, I blushed. He was in casual clothes, and his t-shirt showed off his incredible arms. He invited me in with a smile. I wondered if he could feel the sexual tension that I felt. He showed me around his apartment, and I couldn't help but glance in his open bedroom door at his king size bed.
His son was adorable, and he took to me immediately. We had so much fun playing together, that I barely noticed the hours had passed until it became dark outside. I got the kid ready for bed and tucked him in, reading him his favorite stories. He smiled up at me and told me that he hoped I would stay. My heart ached.
A few hours went by, and I passed the time reading on the couch in the living room. When Mr. Jetson arrived at the house, he seemed worn out. I poured him a glass of water and we sat and talked on the couch for a little while. He told me about his day hanging out with his friends, other teachers from the school. I told him about the funny things his son had said while we were together. I placed my hand on his arm at one point, but before long, he told me it was time for him to go to bed. Disappointed, I got my things together and went home.
For four weeks, the same pattern continued. But each night, we would spend a little longer talking together when he returned home. He would let me leave my hand on his arm a little longer. His son had really formed a bond with me, and had even accidentally called me "mommy" once. I really cared about this kid. He was sweet, smart, and funny. He would make jokes that seemed beyond his years. We watched quirky television together, read books, and played games. We drew and wrote stories together. I was glad to be watching him.
One night, as Mr. Jetson and I were talking, he invited me to go hiking with him and his son. I readily agreed. Admittedly, I liked playing the role of mother to his child. I wanted him to see me as an option in that way. The day we planned to hike was just a few days after my 18th birthday. I wondered if he were finally seeing me as more than just a student.
That day, I wore shorts that showed off my fit legs, and a tank top that showed my collarbones and slender arms. I slipped on my hiking sandals, threw a couple reusable bottles of water and some granola bars in my backpack, and headed out the door. I met him at his house, but when he answered the door, he looked sad. He explained to me that his wife, with whom the divorce was almost final, had returned home the night before, and shown up at his door earlier that morning. She had taken their child with her for the week. He knew that she deserved to have time with him, and he couldn't bring himself to deny her time spent with her own child. He asked me if I still wanted to go hiking. I reached out and took his hand.
"Let's go anyway," I said. "It'll make you feel better."
We listened to music on the car ride to the trail, and I could watch his mood lifting. The fresh air through the windows and the beautiful music were rejuvenating. I wondered if my company was helping too. I couldn't help but admire his muscles through his exercise clothes. I wondered what his skin would feel like to my touch. I grew a little wet just sitting there looking at him.
When we reached the trail, we set off quickly. It was fairly remote, and there weren't any other cars there. Halfway up the trail, I tripped over a rock. He helped me up, taking my hand in his. When I got back on my feet, our hands stayed together.
"Your hands are so much bigger than mine," I whispered.
